


On the Mating Call

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [7]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since her rooftop encounter with the apex predator of Westminster; Nicola Murray has been itching to have him again. Malcolm Tucker - Winged, fierce, without mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Mating Call

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another piece from the Tumblr writing partnership of themasterplanner and the-crazy-geek

 

The concrete jungle of politics is in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: the guiding principle is survival of the fittest, and just as the males compete for power in the pack, the females are drawn to mate with a strong, established male.

  
  


Here we may spot a glimpse of the Right Honourable Nicola Murray MP, the current Minister of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, as she displays her finest plumage, so to speak, in an attempt to attract the attentions of the undisputed alpha male of Westminster: Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications for Number 10.

  
  


***

Try as she might to get some actual work done, Nicola just couldn’t get the images out of her mind. Malcolm Tucker with great dove grey wings, perching on a rooftop like a hawk, devouring his prey before taking her in a flurry of energetic sex. She could have quite dismissed it as a dream, a fevered hallucination brought on by a combination of job-related stress, indigestion from takeout curry, and her barren sex life, or lack thereof, had it not been for the teeth and nail marks she’d concealed with sweaters and tasteful scarves for several days afterwards. The powerful Director of Communications had been as ruthless as ever, single-mindedly pursuing his goals – whether they be taking an MP down or making one come under him – and she’d never had sex like that before.

No feelings, no emotional ties, nothing beyond animalistic coupling – just a quick wham bang and then continuing as before. Nicola had had one-night stands in her younger days at university, of course, but those had always left her feeling slightly sordid.

With Malcolm, she felt empowered. He trusted her with his secret, the wings that he could hide, and she was still young enough to feel a flutter when a man sexually desired her. Her fucking husband certainly didn’t.

However, this had led to a few situations that she would admit were her fault. Trying to drop subtle hints to Malcolm about maybe having a repeat of their rooftop encounter simply fell on deaf ears; Malcolm didn’t do subtle, or at least pretended not to. She’d seen him and Jamie go up to the roof to settle some argument and come down again later positively reeking of sweat and sex; strange how that knowledge didn’t cause any jealousy. She wondered where in the pecking order (she giggled to herself at the pun) Malcolm actually stood among his kind. King eagle of the roost? Supreme master of the flock? She certainly couldn’t imagine him being subservient to anyone.

It had been almost a month after their rooftop encounter when she’d been summoned to Malcolm’s office to “ _go over_ " a few things – that being Tuckerese for " _You will say what I fucking tell you to say, and_ nothing _else._ "

She’d risked his wrath by stopping off in the ladies’ room on the way out of her building and making sure her stockings and underwear were all neat and hopefully still enticing.

Her mind’s eye presented a vision of Malcolm’s piercing grey eyes and intense smoldering stare, his long elegant hands and fingers, and most of all his wide-spreading wings, each feather an almost silvery grey and smooth as satin to the touch, and her insides tightened at the thought of them softly brushing against her bare skin. She gasped and grabbed a nearby periodical to fan herself with.

She had been afraid of a lot of things in her life, but she wasn’t afraid to admit this: she wanted him. She wanted to feel those great wings around her again, fluttering and beating the air while Malcolm expertly drove her toward climax.

Nicola Murray MP wasn’t known for being a risk taker. She had to be aware how reckless this was, both personally and professionally, trying to seduce the PM’s pet falcon while still married to another man. But her mind was made up: she fully intended to have him inside her again before this day was out…

***

Malcolm Tucker stalked his office, muttering various profanities and trying out a few new combinations for when Murray decided to show her fucking glum face to him. Every time, every fucking time that woman had to make even the smallest comment to the press, she fucked up harder than Ron Jeremy in a rocket.

He’d now taken the precaution of making sure he knew exactly what the social affairs minister was going to say before she said it – and if that meant dragging her into his office five times a week, then so be it. It was still easier than cleaning up the mess after one of her little “verbal slips.”

He’d just settled on a really good stream of invective involving cow’s arses, sandpaper, and a road drill when Sam escorted Nicola in and closed the door as she left. Nicola stood there in her boring bloody black suit, despite him constantly fucking telling her that black was fer national emergencies and funerals _only_ , and her boring fucking black shoes, and just waited for the inevitable.

"Are ye a fucking corpse? _Talk_. Ye know the routine, you tell me what verbal shit you were planning to throw at the press and I tell ye what you are _actually_ going tae say.”

***

"I’d like to go into some more detail about the Fourth Sector Pathfinders Initiative, which will hopefully–"

"Brilliant. You have been granted a baby, and unto us was born a child of solid fuck."

"Well, what would you prefer me to say?"

A snort of dismissal was the only response she got. She was just turning to leave when he breathed in and said: “Wait.”

His grey eyes held a predator’s gaze, dark and sharp, and she couldn’t quite meet them without shaking. _This is what prey feels like_. With long strides he stepped even closer to her, then leaned in and sniffed at her neck, all without touching her.

She was trembling when his lean face returned to her field of vision. “So, it looks like I have another secret of yours,” he purred, not waiting for her confused (as fucking usual) response before continuing. “Nicola Murray, my fucking reason for all this grey hair, drenches her fucking kecks when I’m within two feet of her.”

His smile bared his teeth and he leaned in even closer, hissing his next words into her ear, taunting her. “You want me. You’re fuckin’ dripping fer me. Nae use denying it – I can fucking smell it on ye.”

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. “So what if I am?”

Malcolm’s head cocked sideways at this unexpected show of confidence from Nicola. It was fucking obvious what she was after, but Malcolm was Alpha. He was Dominant, he was the one in fucking control. He got sex when _he_ wanted it; he was not about to be used as sexual relief for some horny, desperate MP with a wing fetish.

"I should have fucking seen it sooner!" Malcolm shouted, a triumphant smile still on his face. "The black suit—black is slimming, right? The new haircut, the high heels, the perfume? I bet ye’re wearing something lacy under it too, aren’t ye? Christ knows yer not gettin’ dolled up for that fucking bent husband of yours."

"Malcolm, leave James out of it, he’s got nothing to do with—"

"—anything, right." Malcolm clacked his teeth as though biting her husband. "He’s as much use as sandpaper bog roll and just as fucking irritating." His eyes travelled slowly down to her waist and back up to her face, and his smile widened. "Besides, if he had even touched ye recently, you wouldn’t have ended up standing in my office dolled up and panting like a fucking mutt, right?"

"Do you _have_ to be so utterly revolting?”

"You’re no’ disagreeing, and you’d be a fucking idiot tae try to lie to me. I fucking know _everything_ , which if ye bothered tae engage that tiny brain of yours, ye’d be aware of.”

Quite unexpectedly, Nicola just sighed. “Does everything between us have to be a fight?”

Malcolm only shrugged. “It’s worked all right so far. Now for fuck’s sake, stop standing there sweatin’ like a whore in church and sit down, because we’re going to be here fer awhile.”

***

Truth be told, she’d wanted him from the first time he came striding toward her after she’d been handed the keys to DoSAC, but that had been merely an infatuation, nothing more than a starstruck teenage girl’s crush on the archetypal _bad boy_. The wings had changed that, against all logic made him more real – a creature of flesh and blood with desires and needs of his own, and not just a soulless demon from the darkest depths of Number 10, hell-bent on destroying her.

It was dangerous to toy with him again.

And yet –

And yet she was drawn to him, her mind clouded with some dark and carnal desire she thought she’d forgotten how to feel after years of marriage and three children. Grey-eyed and grey-winged, the communications director was as compelling and as dangerous as a flame to a moth.

Worse yet: Malcolm knew it.

Worst of all: Malcolm was more than willing to use it as a weapon.

Mesmerized, she watches him cautiously as he paces behind the desk, as if watching a rare and dangerous bird of prey, waiting for him to strike, waiting for him to make the next move.

***

Sam Cassidy briefly interrupted the appointment, letting Malcolm know that she’d put all calls for him on hold, and asking if he and Nicola would like some tea.

"No, thank you, love," Malcolm said. "Just make sure we’re nae disturbed for the next hour or so while the Minister and I go over her interview, right?"

Nicola watched her leave, closing and locking the door behind her. “I notice you’re very close to Sam.”

"Well, the wee lass is only the second-most competent person in this entire fucking building, next to myself, of course." Malcolm’s smile when he spoke of Sam was the fondest, most genuine display of emotion Nicola had ever seen from him.

"Is she one of your kind, too? Does she fly about London, hunting pigeons with her boss? I mean, after what Jamie said, I’d assumed she was your wife."

Malcolm’s smile disappeared, his expression darkening. Nicola involuntarily stepped back as his voice dropped to a near-whisper she found far more frightening than his shouting. “I told you, my relationship with Sam is fucking _off limits_! What am I, flypaper for fuckwits today?!” He slammed a hand onto the desk, breathing hard, veins throbbing across his temples as he glared at Nicola. Then he realized what the social affairs minister had been trying to do, and he shook his head, trying to clear it. The red haze clouding his vision slowly receded, as did the horrible itching, prickling feeling in his shoulders and back, where his wings were retracted. He’d almost taken the bait – _almost_. He breathed hard as he fought to regain control, and resolved to have a long, _long_ talk with his senior press officer later.

"So, what? You think if ye get me angry enough, I’ll just spread my wings an’ fuck ye over this desk? There’s a word fer that, sweetheart, and it’s not one I like."

Malcolm _was_ , however, getting steadily more furious. If this had been Jamie, they’d have had a quick fight an’ shag somewhere and return with the hierarchy firmly re-established. Wingless were so much more sodding work, and with nowhere near the satisfying results either.

"You know what, Malcolm? I don’t – I don’t actually care about this interview. I’m going to say what I like and leave it for you to clean up if you find it unsatisfactory. I’ve had it with you."

"Oh yes, let Malcolm fucking clean it up! Let _him_ deal with the _horrendous fuck-pie of cock-stew_ that you’ve cooked up–”

Nicola didn’t even have time to turn around before an explosion of grey feathers and tattered material shot past her.

"Not another fucking suit!" bellowed Malcolm, his wings held out high behind him as he tried to disentangle one from the remains of his suit jacket. They were as immense and powerful-looking as she remembered, the layered feathers an almost silvery shade of dove grey found nowhere else on this earth. Walking past Nicola, he opened the door slightly, poked his head out of the doorway, and screamed into the hallway.

“ _Sam!_ It’s fucking happened again!”

Sam walked to the office and assured Malcolm that yes, she’d arrange another set of clothes and his spare was in the cupboard as per usual, then closed and locked the door.

"Best woman ever." Malcolm smiled, genuinely, and brushed some stray down feathers off his arms. “‘Course now I’ll have tae get her to brush these things down again and the poor wee thing only did that this morning and–"

His explanation abruptly ended with a sharp intake of breath, because Nicola was running a hand across his left wing, gently carding the feathers between her fingers. In spite of himself, Malcolm closed his eyes and moaned softly at the touch.

"I’ll never understand how you keep these hidden," she murmured, running her hand across the sensitive upper curve of the wing. "They’re bloody _huge_.”

Well, no wonder he couldn’t keep them hidden. The Winged were designed for flight. It was in their nature. The task of keeping wings retracted and hidden required concentration and calm, and the constant cock-ups coming from DoSAC made keeping calm harder than fucking Fat Pat at an all-nude cruise buffet.

He folded them tightly to his back and huffed a frustrated breath. “And that trick isn’t going tae fucking work either, love. Those great things aren’t some kind of button that ye press and _wham_ , ye get instant horny Malcolm. Doesn’t work that way.” Still, it did feel kind of good to have them out for a bit. He indulged himself in a long stretch, loosening up the old flight muscles, his back arching and his wings out to full span. Besides, he’d be lying like a fucking cheap Thai watch on the wrist of a used car salesman if he claimed not to enjoy the compliments, or the opportunity to show off. The look of panting, lustful adoration on Glummy fucking Mummy’s face as she felt up his wings, though, he could do without.

"The way ye get yer rocks off on watching these things flap is just fucking _disturbed_ , I don’t see ye drooling over the fucking pigeons outside day in an’ day out, do I?”

"Speaking of pigeons, when was the last time you went hunting, Malcolm?"

"No time for that now. My schedule is more overstretched than Joan Rivers’ fucking face. And now I’m going to have to change, because at last count, you have caused the wreckage of five of these fucking suits this year."

"As I recall, _you’re_ the one who’s practically marched me into your office almost every day for the past two weeks.”

"Do ye think I enjoy this? Spending half my day at the press office with Ms Fifty Shades of Fucked Up, who gets wetter than a haddock’s minge at the sight of wings?!"

Nicola decided that the tattered remains of her earlier plan were just not worth fighting for any longer. “Fine. I’ll trot out the same tired phrases and everybody will know it’s your hand up my backside working me like a _puppet_ , because we can’t have a Minister with a mind of her own, can we?” Her cheeks burned with equal parts anger and embarrassment.

"I wish you _did_ have a mind of yer fuckin’ own! Your head is so fucking empty, I could shove a fuckin’ candle up yer arse and turn ye into a Chinese lantern!”

***

To put it simply, Malcolm Tucker’s job was to shout at everyone in Westminster in a usually vain effort to stop them fucking up. But Nicola just wanted the shouting to stop, and she wanted it to stop right fucking now, and to that end she did the first thing that came to mind.

Nicola grabbed Malcolm’s tie, and yanking down while raising herself up on tiptoes, captured his mouth in a kiss.

He found himself kissing her back instead of hurling her aside, for a few seconds anyway. She was still a handsome woman, who very obviously wanted him, and in his younger days he’d have had her naked and on the floor by now. But his younger days were well behind him, and after all, unlike _some_ people, he had a fucking job to do.

He straightened up and was about to pull his wings back into his body when a gentle hand on his arm distracted him.

"Wait," Nicola said. "Don’t put them away. You were right."

Now _that_ was new. He raised an eyebrow at her, clearly wondering when the fuck Nicola Murray had been replaced by a fucking pod person.

"You’re right. I want you. Fucking hell, Malcolm, you were incredible, okay?" Nicola said, temper and voice rising. "If that was a fucking mistake, you could at least fucking tell me!"

He stood there, arms folded, and laughed, wings fluttering. “At least your fucking swearing is improving, even if nothing else is.” Truth be told, he _had_ enjoyed it rather a lot himself – the thrill of a decent hunt, devouring his kill and then having a rooftop shag after it – well, there were far worse ways to spend a day at a think tank. _She’s here, willing, wet, the door is locked…_ Malcolm’s libido didn’t often make requests of the steel-trap mind running things, far too intimidated by the grey matter up top, but it _was_ being annoyingly persistent right now, as the honey-sweet scent of an aroused, fertile woman was coming off Nicola in waves.

_You had sex five times last night with Sam, ye greedy fuck!_ It didn’t matter; certain parts of him were responding quite forcefully to the opportunity presented in front of him. Female, decent-looking, fucking fertile, horny as hell, asking him for sex and _oh fuck on toast_ were those _stockings_ she was wearing?! The only saving grace was that Wingless women didn’t give off as strong a scent as Winged, and normally he could have ignored it, just shrugged it off. Having a Winged female, his Chosen, on heat at the moment was making him far more susceptible to those pheromones in others.

Fuck it.

Well, if he was going to do this, it was going to be on _his_ fucking terms.  

***

Nicola yelped as his wings enfolded her suddenly and she felt his teeth on her neck and his hands on her hips. His voice was rough and his stare cold and predatory, his pupils so blown that his grey eyes appeared glazed and dark.  ”You want tae know what it’s like tae be taken by a fucking Alpha of the Flock?” Malcolm snarled, teeth scraping against her skin, his erection pressing hard against her body. “You are nothing but prey tae me, to be fucked or eaten–” His voice dropped to a whisper. “–or _both_.”

She couldn’t help but shiver when his hands ran smoothly up her thighs and slipped under her short skirt, his long fingers travelling to her stocking tops and his thumbs hooking round the suspender straps. “So, under the fucking boring suit she hides a few surprises, eh?”

Any sarcastic response Nicola had in mind was halted when he simultaneously snapped both straps and bit her shoulder. This was shaping up to be considerably rougher than their first encounter; Malcolm was biting harder, dragging his nails across her skin with almost no concern for her at all.

And _damn_ if that wasn’t making her even hotter. It had never been this exciting with James. No, it was Malcolm fucking Tucker who drove her mad with desire; that beautiful grey monster from Number 10’s press office, his hands, his voice, _his magnificent wings_ , who made her moan and gasp and beg. “I’d rather you didn’t actually eat me, Malcolm,” she said, her voice considerably steadier than the rest of her. “I’ve got things that need doing–”

"Shut. The _fuck_. Up.” In a blink of an eye he had her spun around and face down over his desk, great wings beating the air with enough force to blow papers and satsumas onto the floor.

Malcolm’s stance had changed completely. His expression and body language had subtly altered, become harder and more aggressive, more feral. In the space of a second, the charming, charismatic arch-politician had become the apex predator of Westminster.

"Ye want this, then it’s going tae be the way _I_ like it, and I like it fucking rough. You mouth off or start thinkin’ you’re clever, and ye can just take your shite and get _out_ of my fucking office, ye ken?” Nicola gasped for breath and nodded as his talon-like fingers tugged at her hair. He was strong, so strong – he could probably tear her limb from limb, if he wanted to.

***

Malcolm had to be careful. As satisfying as it would be to just fuck her right into the desk, Nicola was Wingless, and anything more than the slightest hint of his strength would injure her enough that inconvenient questions would be asked. If he wanted really no-holds-barred later, he’d have to track young Jamie down. He could handle the full brunt of Malcolm’s power. Nicola could not.

She did look fucking enticing as hell under him though: pert arse stuck out and rubbing against his erection as she shifted deliberately against it, soft satin black knickers soaked with her arousal visible when he wrenched her skirt up to her waist. “Nice, but they have tae go.” The social affairs minister stifled a yelp against the desk as he clenched the crotch of her underwear in his fist and ripped them off in a single movement. The delicately lacy, ribbon-trimmed black garter belt, to which the stockings had been fastened, followed the knickers shortly after.

Bare, wet, the scent of her fertility growing ever stronger – Malcolm bit his lip. He wanted to mate with her, instincts as old as his race telling him to mount her and get a child on her.

But one thing he wasn’t, was stupid. Malcolm yanked open a desk drawer and reached up to the hidden compartment, slipping a condom packet out and into his hand. He ignored the lube packets in there and slammed the drawer shut with a knee. Undoing his trouser fly, taking out his erection, and sliding the condom on it only took a few seconds, but the noise alerted Nicola.

"You get sex in your office often enough to need a Durex stash in here?"

A large hand slammed down onto her back and pressed her even harder against the wooden desk. “What did I fucking say?! Do I have tae put it in shorter words for your micro brain? Shut the fuck _up_!”

A long finger inserted itself between her legs, followed by another, and then the delicious feel of being stretched and prepared. They slid back out and she moaned at the loss of sensation, only to gasp when Malcolm apparently slid all four fingers and a thumb into her. Stretched almost beyond belief, she sighed happily. James had never managed to do this.

"Ye’re so fucking wet, I don’t even need fucking foreplay, do I? Christ, do ye walk into my office every time like this?" Nicola almost answered, but bit her lip as she remembered his anger at being interrupted. Raw, rough sex didn’t exactly require the use of her mouth after all, certainly not for talking, at any rate. Malcolm was pushing his fingers as deep inside as they would go, spreading them even further and she risked his ire by gasping his name. The extreme fullness pushed her right to the edge, but Malcolm was making sure she didn’t tip over it.

Apparently some words he didn’t mind hearing from her, as his fingers were swiftly pulled out of her to be replaced by – _ohgodthankyouyes_ – the slick length of his cock. He didn’t give her any time to get used to his intrusion, to stop her muscles fluttering around his length, but just dug his fingernails into her back and started thrusting brutally hard and fast, his powerful wings held high and spread to their full span in a display of his dominance, the tips brushing the walls of the office.

It wasn’t pretty, or romantic, or even seductive. It was simply Malcolm Tucker fucking Nicola Murray over a desk, awkward, uncomfortable…

…and bloody _glorious_ , fucking _exhilarating_. No power plays or ulterior motives such as getting a partner pregnant, no political posturing, not even fucking revenge – just pure uncomplicated sex, the fulfillment of a drive far older than civilization. In the world of political intrigues and intricacies both petty and grand that they lived in, the sheer simplicity of it was a relief. During this at least, they were no longer the Director of Communications for the Government and the Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship; they were simply a male and a female, doing what males and females have done since before the earliest hominids divided into the Winged and the Wingless.

No encounter with her husband, not even when they first dated, had been this wild and savage and intense. Malcolm was like a gale force wind, her hands gripping the edge of the desk for dear life being the only things stopping her from being pushed entirely off.

A fact she was very glad of, when Malcolm took hold of her thighs and, in a stunning display of his lithe strength, lifted her feet clear off the ground so her legs were spread in midair with his cock still buried firmly into her, holding her like she was a wheelbarrow. He wasn’t even straining or trembling with the effort; he just held her like she weighed nothing at all and carried on thumping into her as his wings fluttered in time, his nails buried into her legs like they were talons and she was his prey. Not daring to speak, Nicola silently pleaded for more, harder, panting for breath as the delicious friction sent floods of heat through her body. She was in the grip of the bird of prey, something wild and untamed and untamable, something that had never known mercy and never would.

***

With the frenzy of a man possessed, Malcolm gritted his teeth and thrust even harder into Nicola. He wouldn’t admit it on pain of fucking death, but the Minister in Charge of Fuckups was a remarkably flexible woman and felt fucking good around him. He was certainly getting close to climax anyway, breathing harder with the effort of trying to fight his Winged instincts to come over and over into a fertile woman – _Christ no, we’ve got fucking work tae do. Multiple fucking orgasms are not on the fucking menu._

His unfurled wings were starting to ache from being held up so high, reminding him of his age. He fluttered them a few times to try and ease his muscles a bit, but then remembered: _Well, she’s got a fucking kink for these things…,_ and swung them down and forward to brush over her sides and tickle her skin.

The effect on Nicola was electric and instantaneous. She sucked in a breath and pushed her whole body back against him. “Do it,” she gasped. “I want to come!”

"Do ye now? What if I won’t let ye? I could keep you hanging, trembling on the edge, never letting you shudder in relief–"

Nicola moaned at the image, and the sudden knowledge that the bastard could – and would – absolutely do that. Sod dignity. “Malcolm, please!”

He’d swear blind later that he did not breathe a sigh of relief at that moment.

Malcolm dropped her legs to the floor and pulled out. “Sit facin’ me,” was the only instruction he gave, and Nicola scrambled to obey – ending up sitting on the desk with her legs spread open, clothes rumpled and hair mussed, not giving a shit at all about how wanton she must have looked.

Grey feathers moved into her field of vision from both sides; Malcolm pulled them back, folding them neatly behind him but still holding them high enough to be seen, and touched, by Nicola. He lined back up and slid oh so easily into her again, her hot interior absolutely sopping wet by now, and then it was all hands grasping and hips thrusting and breathing getting ever faster until–

"I’m gonna come–" Malcolm could feel it building and rising inside him, too late to stop, impossible to hold back, the increasing volume of Nicola’s cries spurring him on. She was grinding hard against him, her clit rubbing against his slim pelvis while she moaned incoherent words. Neither could last for much longer.

It was Malcolm who came first this time, biting her neck in instinct and burying himself deep inside her as he ejaculated in a shudder of pleasure, his wings held up in a show of complete dominance the whole time, as if to announce: _I am Malcolm F Tucker, I am the fucking Alpha and I’m coming into one of my women, so fuck off_.

Nicola followed suit just after. The teeth in her neck and the feel of his wings moving beneath her hands was all the stimulation she needed and she groaned in the back of her throat as she felt her orgasm spill over her. Her head fell back, and she was coming hard and _loud_.

"Fuck! _Malcolm!_ " If she could think, she’d worry that someone in Number 10 had heard her scream his name, and put two and two together. She was lost in the sensation, her heart pounding, her whole body on fire. Her toes curled and her legs blindly kicked at the air, and her hands found feathers and pulled, and she was still coming and couldn’t seem to stop.

"Yes, say it again," Malcolm growled, biting her breasts and nipples, nails viciously clawing into her like an eagle tearing apart its prey. In spite of himself, he was already getting hard again, responding to her need, her scent, her fertility. _Fucking Winged biology…_

“ _Malcolm–!_ " She arched her back with a grunt, taking hold of his wings. Wrapping her legs around his narrow waist, she started thrusting herself onto him, trying to drive him even deeper into her; within seconds she was coming again, hard and fast, her body shaking as it clenched itself around him.

_"Malcolm! Oh God–"_

Finally, she fell into his arms, limp as a dead fish, and gasped for breath, still quivering as Malcolm, for the second time, came into her violently and with a flurry of muttered profanities.

"Fucking insatiable, aren’t ye?" Malcolm whispered, but not in anger. Nicola only moaned in reply; it looked like he’d finally succeeded in getting her to fucking shut up.

***

While Malcolm disposed of the condom, Nicola slipped her stockings back on and tried to straighten her hair and clothing.

"Right, you can fuck off now." Malcolm waved a hand dismissively, folding and retracting his wings as he fastened his fly.

"I can’t be seen walking out of your office like this!" Nicola was sore, aching, and wet, her body covered in bruises, bites, and scratches. She’d be wearing turtleneck sweaters, scarves, and pantsuits for a few weeks.

"Something ye should’ve fucking thought about, right?" Malcolm pulled the desk back into its proper position with almost unnatural ease before retrieving his spare shirt and jacket from the cupboard and pulling them on. "Jesus Christ, do ye have _any_ thoughts fluttering about in that fucking empty skull of yours? You know, other than how much ye want to shag me?”

Nicola couldn’t meet his eyes. “We can’t be doing this again, Malcolm.”

"No, we can’t."

Malcolm sighed and ran a hand over his mouth, surveying the office. There were papers, folders, and satsumas strewn over the floor, knocked aside in their throes of passion, as well as feathers and tufts of soft grey down that littered desk, floor, and clothing. “Don’t just stand there looking like a fucking wilted houseplant! Help me clean up the fucking place, yeah?”


End file.
